“Even better.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I never thought a dead family could be construed as a positive.”
“Why ever not? I frequently wished mine were dead.” She attempted levity to recover from her rudeness. “Forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”
He did not acknowledge her apology, but raised his glass to his lips. “Be careful what you wish for.”
His warning chilled her to her bones. The sadness in his eyes told her he spoke from experience. She wanted to ask what had happened, but she had put her foot into her mouth enough for one evening.
“Your story will stir no little scandal.” He set his empty glass away from himself.
She shrugged. It would not be the most infamous thing she had done. Marksby had not been her only lover, nor the most notable. “They’ll believe it. My reputation precedes me. You’ll be admired for getting one over on Marksby, and I will be admonished, but no more than usual.”
His gaze dropped just below her eyes and she wondered if he could see her freckles. All the cures she had tried had failed, and she had always been grateful for the heavy stage makeup that concealed her imperfection. Would he think better of his mad idea now that he could see her without it? She was not a natural beauty, she had been told, but her considerable presence and the pitch of her voice fooled the audience into thinking she was. Her complexion, her height, and her copper-colored hair made it impossible for her to ever be a true beauty. Surely Somerton would notice. His complexion was flawless and pale as a pearl.
“I loved you the moment I saw you,” he said on a sigh, and it sounded like a confession. “I’ve sat in the same box for nigh on ten years watching you perform, sometimes several times a week. They call me a recluse, but it is only that I am in the theater every night, in the same box, listening to your voice.”
Charlotte trembled. She had never heard anything so romantic in her life. It took her a full minute to realize he was only embellishing on the story she had suggested. “Oh, yes. That’s very good.” She smiled, though the damage had already been done. Ruse or not, she’d do anything in her power to induce him to say such a thing again.
He poured himself another glass of whiskey.
Ten years, he had said. Her spine stiffened. She had been acting for twelve, though she would not willingly admit to it. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “You know how old I am, then?”
He shook his head.
“I’m twenty-nine.” Her hair fell into her face and she swiped it away, bashful. “Perhaps too old to be a bride.”
“Nonsense. I’m thirty-two. I suppose I could marry a disgraced school miss out for her first Season, but what would we talk about?”
She grinned, much relieved to hear he was older than he looked. She would not be corrupting a boy after all. “What will we talk about?”
“Theater?” he suggested. “Literature? Art? I’ll take you to see Elgin’s Marbles, and we can discuss conquest and exploration.”
She bit her lip, liking the sound of that. “Conquest and exploration. I’d like that.”
If he noticed she was flirting with him, he gave no indication. He changed the subject. “Is Halfpenny a stage name?”
“It is. Thought it sounded better than Sixpence,” she kidded, her gaze sweeping his fine form. If this were a dream, it was a good one. “What’s your name?”
“Apollo Benedict Rothschild. What’s your real name?”
“Hartford. What’s yours?”
He visibly jumped. “Whatever do you mean?”
Her cheek quirked in a smile. She hadn’t meant to offend, but his name was vaguely ridiculous. “Apollo? Truly? With that dark hair of yours, you look more like Hades.”
He returned her smile, relaxing. “Does that make you Persephone? I suppose I have spirited you away to make you my queen.”
Charlotte smiled, enjoying the image. He was handsome as sin, and Somerton House certainly had a feel of the underworld to it. “Now that is a role I have not yet played. Where’s a pomegranate when you need one?”
He met her gaze with the innocence of a fawn seeing a predator for the first time. Who was hunting whom? He swallowed. “Will you stay here tonight? I’ll procure a special license in the morning, and you can do some shopping, if you’d like.”
She sat back, surprised. Somerton would waste no time. “You mean to marry soon?”
“Before Christmas, ideally. I’ve been invited to a house party for the holiday, and I was hoping you might accompany me as my guest. The Duchess of Haverford is hosting it at Hollystone Hall. Her son is an old friend of mine. It could be our first foray into Society together, if that is not too much to ask.”
Christmas? Hours before, she had been looking at spending the holiday on the street, and now she was to celebrate on the arm of an earl. Tears of relief prickled her nose, threatening to spill.
“Have I upset you? We could remain here, if you prefer.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. It is only that I have not celebrated the holidays with anyone but my stage mistress and barkeep for some time. I would love to accompany you.”
He gave a sharp nod. “Excellent. We leave in two days’ time. Do you suppose you could purchase what you need for the journey tomorrow? Frocks and so forth?”
She stifled her laugh and almost snorted. Could she purchase a few things with an earl’s fortune to wear to an intimate holiday party with the nobility? “I expect I can manage.” An understatement.
“You can have anything you’d like made when we return, of course.” He waved a hand. “We have generations worth here, as well. You’re welcome to any of them, though they are quite out of fashion.”
Generations worth of countesses’ gowns? She could have salivated at the thought. “I love old dresses. Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it.” He stood, straightening his cravat. “Shall I show you to your room?”
He offered her his hand and she took it, threading her arm through his easily as she stood. His arms were long and lean, and she liked the way her hand felt tucked into his elbow. He took a candlestick from the table and led her through the oppressive shadows of the old house, past portraits of ancestors and up the curved staircase to the bedrooms beyond.
Charlotte’s heart pounded in her ears, fear warring with anticipation. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom of the cavernous halls, she did indeed feel like Somerton was leading her into hell. What did he mean to do with her when they arrived?
At last, he opened a door and used the candle to light a sconce on the wall. Beyond, she could make out a cold hearth, a canopied bed, and what looked like a number of colored glass lanterns suspended from the ceiling like those at a Moroccan bazaar. The small room had been made up as if for a guest, but judging by the dust on the mantel, it had gone unused for years.
“I wasn’t certain you would stay,” he apologized, his voice the only sound in the vast, empty house. “Allow me to build you a fire.”
“I can manage,” she assured him with a smile, her hand creeping down his arm to take his. “Will you be joining me?”
He turned to regard her with heavy-lidded eyes, appearing to consider her invitation. She licked her lips, more than willing to get acquainted with her future husband. As his gaze dropped to her lips, she lifted her chin.
His voice trembled as he spoke. “I think not. Is there anything I can have brought to you to make you more comfortable?”
She took a step backward and tried to mask her embarrassment. Few had refused her. “No, Lord Somerton. Thank you for your kindness.”
“Apollo,” he offered, his voice a caress.
“Pluto?” she suggested with a smile.
“As my lady desires.” He stepped back to put further space between them and bowed. “Miss Halfpenny.”
She watched him retreat down the hall, the candle lighting his way through the shadows.
“Charlotte,” she whispered.
Chapter 4
Charlotte woke up to th
e smell of hot coffee.
She stretched beneath a faintly musty coverlet and opened her eyes to see the fluted green silk of an ancient canopy. The last time she’d fallen asleep on stage furniture, she’d been in her altitudes on blue ruin. She ran a hand over her face, expecting the accompanying headache to set it, but her stomach lurched instead.
Charlotte threw herself over the side of the bed just in time to cast her accounts into a chamber pot.
A gilded chamber pot.
Stomach empty, she looked up in horror at the maid holding it. She had moved so quietly, Charlotte hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room until she saw the gnarled hand clutching the rim. The woman’s face appeared younger than her hands, though that wasn’t saying much. Stern and heavily lined, she looked as though she was closing in on sixty years of hard labor.
This woman was not her landlady, and Charlotte was not in Bankside.
Charlotte rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you.”
The woman ignored her and removed the chamber pot with a huff.
“Why is it gilded?” Charlotte asked.
“Family joke no one remembers,” the maid snapped. “Don’t make off with it when I bring it back.”
She blinked at the woman’s rudeness. A woman of Charlotte’s station had no right to expect anything else. The coffee smell drew her attention to a silver tray beside the window. “Is that coffee?”
“It’s not cobbler’s punch.” The woman covered the pot and set it beside the door. As she tore open the drapes, the sunlight illuminated a cloud of dust thicker than the smoke over Southwark.
Charlotte sneezed.
The woman shot her a glare that looked capable of turning a lesser woman into a toad.
Charlotte shrugged it off. The maid had nothing on her stage mistress.
Though there was a tempest in her belly, the coffee called to her. She glanced around the room for the wet clothes she had discarded the night before. “May I trouble you for my gown?”
The maid snorted. She flung open a wardrobe beside the bed and withdrew a white muslin day dress at least a dozen years out of date. Charlotte took it from her and marveled at the delicate embroidery. It looked a bit like one she’d had as a young girl, but it was clearly of much higher quality. Intended for a girl’s first Season, it was too new to have belonged to Apollo’s mother, but he hadn’t mentioned any other female relatives. “Whose is this?”
“Belonged to his lordship’s sister. Not good enough, is it?” She sneered.
“It’s beautiful,” she replied defensively. “Apollo didn’t mention a sister.”
The woman turned away, her face haunted with old tragedy. The girl had clearly been among those of his family who had passed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Were you close?”
Her brown eyes hardened. “That is no concern of yours.” She marched to the door and retrieved the covered chamber pot. “When you’ve finished your coffee, Lord Somerton is in the summer parlor.”
“Thank you, Mrs.…?”
She slammed the door.
The sound rattled Charlotte to her bones. Clutching the beautiful gown, she opened the wardrobe to search for a shift and stays. Inside, half a dozen dusty dresses hung over shelves of kid gloves, bonnets, short boots, and dancing slippers. All of it was top quality but barely worn, and the stays she found were still wrapped in brittle tissue paper from the shop. Apollo’s sister had been tall for a girl, and many of the pieces inside would still fit Charlotte tolerably well, if tight across the bust. She dressed herself as though putting on a costume, a tragic heroine of the not-too-distant past. She hoped it would not upset Apollo to see her in his sister’s things.
As she withdrew a pair of walking boots, the bottom shelf fluttered.
“What the devil?” She poked it and it dipped. A moment’s fumbling revealed a false bottom beneath the shoes. Intrigued, she pulled the shoes out and lifted the secret shelf.
Inside was an old book. Charlotte pulled it out and ran her thumb along the worn edge. The faded cover was the color of lilacs and painted with blue and white flowers. Inside the cover, a girl had written her name.
“Artemis,” Charlotte read out loud with a smile. “Of course.” Named for the classical goddess of the hunt and the twin sister of Apollo, this had to be Lord Somerton’s late sister.
With a glance over her shoulder to check that the maid hadn’t snuck back in, she flipped through the pages.
Mother gave me this diary this morning in hopes it will inspire me to more gentle pursuits. She has never recovered from catching me practice shooting with Pol. She is tireless in her quest to mold me into a proper lady. She’s determined I try my hand at watercolors now. I don’t see the point; the Season begins in a month and if I’m not a lady now, I’ll never be one. And doesn’t that sound dreadful? The word “season” puts me in mind of a cat in heat, or a hunting season. I’m the fox, am I? If any ponce tries to bag me, I’ll break his nose.
Charlotte covered her mouth to muffle her laughter. Artemis sounded like a girl after her own heart.
At the sound of footsteps on the stair, she closed the diary and returned it to its hiding place. By the time the maid returned with a clean chamber pot, she was halfway into Artemis’ old dress.
* * *
Charlotte followed the sound of steel through the house.
It was no less peculiar by daylight. She padded down the stairs in a dead girl’s dancing shoes through the foyer covered floor to ceiling in oils of ancestors. Dozens of eyes seemed to watch her as she passed beneath an ancient chandelier. The house was more home to the dead than the living; on a quiet day, she imagined she might hear them speaking. She paused near the foot of the stair at the sound of a tremulous whine. Clutching the banister, she listened.
It wasn’t a whine at all, but a faraway scream, and it seemed to be moving up the stairs.
Her hair stood on end and she tried to shake herself out of it. “Now’s not the time for hysterics, Charlotte.”
Beyond the stair, the smells of the kitchen turned her stomach, but she pressed on through the hallway unnoticed until she reached the open room at the east end of the corridor. All the furniture had been lined up against the walls, and two men fenced on an enormous oriental rug, the white of their jackets a stark contrast to the parlor’s dark wood panels.
Though they wore masks to protect their faces, she spotted Apollo immediately. He was the smaller of the two and lithe as a dancer, his movements at once effortless and masterful, beautiful and deadly. She had never seen a man move in such a way and found herself quite hypnotized by it, her gaze riveted to each parry, thrust, and touch. The men were equally skilled, but it was a friendly match and no blood was drawn from the blunted blades.
Apollo’s opponent signaled a break as he noticed her in the doorway. He took off his mask and tucked it under his arm with a crisp bow. Concentration broken, Apollo lowered his weapon and took off his mask. “Good morning, Charlotte,” he greeted with a bow, though they were meant to be on far more intimate terms. He scraped his short hair out of his flushed face. “Alexandre, this is Charlotte Halfpenny. Charlotte, Alexandre Archambault.”
Charlotte curtsied, attempting to hide her curiosity about Apollo’s guest. England was at war with France, after all. The only French people she had met in years were tarts, and half of them had actually been from Hackney. “Avec plaisir, monsieur.”
The gentleman was young and swarthy, with a pair of rather large brown eyes. They regarded her with open curiosity and she realized she must look odd, a mature woman in the ill-fitting dress of a girl. She corrected her posture, overcompensating for her feelings of awkwardness with a brilliant smile. Countess was a role like any other, and she would play the hell out of it.
She wished she had a script.
“Forgive me for interrupting. I didn’t realize Lord Somerton had company. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
He returned her smile
with one of his own, and it brightened the room as surely as if all the drapes had been drawn at once. “I’m afraid not. I must take my leave shortly if I hope to arrive home before the holiday. Another time, perhaps.” He glanced at Apollo and raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, and Charlotte wondered for the first time if there were some truth to the rumors about her intended’s proclivities.
Apollo set aside his foil. “It is a shame you cannot stay for the wedding.”
Archambault pulled his gaze away from Charlotte with some reluctance. “If only I could. The family will be most relieved to see you settled, at last.”
“As will I. Pardon us for a moment, Alexandre.”
At Archambault’s polite nod, Apollo led her into an adjoining room where a decanter of water waited for the gentlemen. He poured two glasses and offered her one. She accepted, her mouth gone quite dry.
His gaze was a caress, and it warmed her from the inside out. Either he wanted her, or he was a better actor than she was. Why had he turned her down?
“You look well in that dress.” His voice was innocent though her impulses were anything but.
“I hope you don’t mind me wearing it…” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Not at all,” he said without hesitation. “But I’m sure you’d prefer some things of your own. I’ve had a carriage prepared if you’d like to do some shopping. We’ll be at Hollystone Hall for a fortnight or more, so purchase anything you’ll need. They can send me the bill; they know where I am.”
Charlotte steadied herself on the back of the nearest chair. An earl had just given her carte blanche to purchase a fortnight’s worth of gowns for a society Christmas. Even at her most successful, Charlotte had had to stretch every penny. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Think nothing of it. Anything that needs to be constructed, you can order upon our return. Get what you need, but limit the jewels. We have more than enough here for you to wear in a lifetime.”
Charlotte’s laugh bounced off the walls. “Limit the jewels, he says.”
Holly and Hopeful Hearts Page 21
